


Little Bird

by Aneres



Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 15:31:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3855808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aneres/pseuds/Aneres
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had always been his instinct to supplicate for the Khan. </p>
<p>A drabble series chronicling Ahmad's introduction, life, and fall inside the court of the Khan of Khans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Bird

His father had been a tall man with broad shoulders. Sometimes Ahmad and his sister would follow him to work. Instead of shooing them, their father would carry them on his shoulders. When he was small, Ahmad imagined it was what climbing a mountain was like.

When Ahmad has been three or so, he had accompanied his father to his work in the temples. Father had been a carver, a creator of the intricate scenes that adorned the walls of the holy sites. As his father made religious scenes appear across the surface of the stones, Ahmad would sit at the man’s feet, sharpening his tools and cleaning his instruments.

Many of the memories he held of his life before the court of Kublai Khan faded as Ahmad assimilated into his new home. He cannot recall his mother’s face or his sister’s name. Yet the temples, he remembered. His father could whistle like a songbird and to pass the time while their work lulled, he would make beautiful music with just the simple passing of breath across lips.

Even years later, Ahmad can recall the scene from the depths of his memory. Himself as a child, sitting in the dusty floor of the half formed temples, the ring of his father’s song in his ear.

When the Mongols came, when they stormed into his family’s home and the glint of their blades reflected on the fires ravaging his city, Ahmad whistled. It allowed him to believe his father was near, standing over him. It was a fallacy. The warriors who found him in his hiding place wore boots still wet with his family’s blood. Ahmad could see his sister, crumpled in the corner, and had to close his eyes. He had waited for their swords to strike him down as well.

Darkness did not come. The warriors watched him, eyes curious at the strange noise the small boy made. Ahmad knew his whistling was not as adept as his fathers: his own ability was more windy and toneless. Yet, the Mongols listened.

Finally, one of the warriors tossed Ahmad over his shoulder. Then Ahmad was whistling for generals, Kublai Khan, and Empress Chabi.

The Khan had been amused but battle made him weary. He waved a hand for them to remove the boy.

Empress Chabi had cleared her throat. It had been a quiet gesture, one only the Khan and few other heard. Kublai had glanced at his wife. The Queen stroked her pregnant belly, looked at Ahmad and then to her Khan again.

Kublai grunted and left.

Empress Chabi descended from her place to come close to Ahmad. She had loomed over him, watching him curiously before dropping to kneel in front of him. He tucked his arms into his body, bowing as he knew he should.

She had reached out, stroked his hair. He looks up at her, eyes meek as a pups. He does this out of instinct. No one would kick a scared dog, not even monsters like the Mongolians.

“There is no need to be afraid, little bird,” Empress Chabi tells him, “I will protect you now.”

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II

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They had awoken him early that morning. Ahmad had been so cranky, one of his attendants had been forced to carry him from his nursery to Empress Chabi’s quarters. He is still yawning when he is placed in the Empress’ lap. The queen strokes his hair as one of the nurses calms the screaming newborn he has been brought to see.

“Why is he angry?” Ahmad asks, covering his ears.

“He is not angry,” the Empress tells him, “He is hungry. Once his belly is full, he will calm and you may hold him.”

Ahmad had heard the courtiers. They said the prince was a sickly baby. He does not tell Empress Chabi what he heard. Two days prior, he had informed her that one of his nurses had scoffed when she had heard they intended to make the queen’s son the royal heir. That nurse had been gone when Ahmad has awoken the next morning. He has a good memory and is a faster learner, even at his young age.

Even the Khan seemed to have doubts. Kublai had gone to inspect the infant earlier, boasting loudly about how robust the child before his full court. Ahmad had seen how bright his Khan’s eyes were when he looked to his wife and how weary his expression became when he turned away.

Finally, the babe quiet. Empress Chabi arranges Ahmad’s arm and the little prince is settled into Ahmad’s hold.

“He is your brother,” Empress Chabi says as they both look upon Prince Jinghim’s wrinkled face.

Ahmad had had a brother, a small infant barely older than Jinghim who had still been at their mother’s breast when the city had been overcome. He can still remember the cries of his true brother and the endless silence when the babe’s cries had ceased. Ahmad had heard everything as he hide.

The memory of his true brother fades, growing fainter until all Ahmad can recall when he hears the word is baby Jinghim in his arms and the way the Khan’s son suckles on Ahmad’s fingers when he reaches out to touch the baby’s tiny mouth.

“My brother.”

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III

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“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the messenger says, “We offer only our finest wares as tribute to our Khan.”

Kublai examines the porcelain in his hand for a moment before giving it to Ahmad. The Khan tells the boy, “Tell me, Ahmad. Is this an article of worth?”

Ahmad looks carefully at the object. He had been tutored by the Ministers of Trade for almost three years now and detecting counterfeit object is his speciality.

However, he quickly notices there is something amiss about this piece. The surface is dull, where it should be bright and translucent. A servant brings him a bit of water to test the porcelain and the liquid is quickly absorbed into the substance. When he hits a lesser piece against the stone floor, it chips.

Ahmad glances around the court, his throat tightening as he sees many faces looking back at him. He is not accustomed to sitting on the Khan’s steps. Empress Chabi, who took interest in his studies, had been the one to suggest he was talented and deserved a place in the court.

It had proven to be beneficial. After only a month of service, Ahmad’s quarters were twice the size they were in the past. Yet, he has become nervous. He knows he is still a pup, one who could be kicked and discarded in the corner if he inadvertently bites the hand which strokes him.

“It is painted glass,” Ahmad says. He clears his throat to ease the nervous undertone in his voice but his words are not emboldened as he adds, “This is not worthy tribute.”

The Khan take the piece back, examining it as Ahmad did. Nodding, Kublai flings the piece against the floor upon which it shatters. The messenger is struggling to his feet when the Khan descends upon him.

Ahmad watches dumbly, piece of the fake porcelain still in hand, as Kublai Khan beats the messenger for the spurn. The sound of bone breaking and the smell of blood fill his senses. His mind begins to wander and he hears his father whistling in his ear.

When the Khan is finished, Ahmad tucks his chin into his neck, complacent even though the Khan does not notice him in the aftermath of his fury.

Weeks later, another tribute arrives. The offering is said to be a solid gold statue but Ahmad quickly notices it is gilded. He does not hesitate to share the flaw with the Khan and he does not blink as his Khan orders the man’s execution. He knows he could just as easily be the one under the Khan’s feet.

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IV

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“Fourteen,” Jinghim says, his voice more a question than a statement. The prince stretches so that his arms spread across the papers in front of him, preventing the tutor from seeing his scratched out numbers and incorrect figures.

“The answer is nine,” Ahmad says before the coarseness in the the tutor’s eyes at Jinghim’s response can be verbalized. Ahmad contemplates telling Jinghim that he misplaced a digit but the last time he had offered assistance, he had received only glares and muttered curses in response to his help.

Jinghim does not sulk. Ahmad watches as his brother’s eyes wander, away from the room where they take their lessons. The sound of metal clashing with metal drifts through the open window from the courtyard below.

Ahmad finds himself distracted too. The Khan’s bastard Byamba is one of the warriors sparring below. Recent injury has made the giant weak. Ahmad does not miss the smug look which graces Jinghim’s face as they both watch Byamba’s sluggish movements. The prince’s half-brother goes bare chested in the summer heat, the thick bandages for his recent battle injuries, white and stark on his dark skin.

At seventeen, Byamba is five years older and nearly two feet taller than Jinghim. Ahmad does not fear the older boy but he does respect his prowess. Jinghim is not of similar mind.

“You move like an old man,” Jinghim says as he and Ahmad pass Byamba after their lesson.

“Take care Jinghim,” one of Byamba’s sparring partners says, “You may hurt yourself with one of your calligraphy brushes.”

“You are not sent to war because you are the Khan’s heir,” Ahmad says, pointedly ignoring the warriors before them. “The Khan would miss you if you died. Others must fight to prove they are of worth.”

Byamba remains silent throughout the exchange. At that moment, he looks, not to Jinghim but at Ahmad. His expression is a curious one. There is no embarrassment or anger in his countenance but one of pity. Byamba nods his heads, “My lords.”  

Then he returns to his practice.

Adhmad does not understand the look Byamba gave him until he returns to his room and finds his abacus. The wind passing through the opening in the lattice over his windows seems to hum with tune.

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V

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The first time is entirely accidental. One of his men makes a mistake while calculating tariff. A half hundred extra pieces of gold are put into his own funds. Ahmad finds the mistakes and has the man’s hand cut off. The whereabouts of the missing gold is never questioned and he makes no move to remove them.

When one controls tribute and taxes, it is easy to take small amounts from larger offerings. Ahmad begin by taking a few pounds from everything that is given to the Khan. It is infinitely pleasing to watch his holdings grow and he quickly finds small takings are not sufficient for his desires.

Ahmad overhears ladies and lords of the court asking after his newfound wealth.

“Gifts from myself and the Khan,” Empress Chabi says.

She smiles at Ahmad. He begins to take more. He wonders how much he may take before his Queen’s smile fades.

Perhaps she is proud of him. He has taken the habits and thoughts of his father the Khan.

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VI

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“This is Lord Kaidu’s mark,” Mei Lin says, holding the signet up to examine its markings.

“A response to the horses and weapons I presented him with,” Ahmad says, stroking her hair.

“You make many trades, do you not?”

“When you feed two dogs in a fight, you empower both,” Ahmad says watching her, “Sometimes they kill one another.”

Mei Lin puts down the signet and meets his eyes, “Excellent.”

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VII

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“I am not a soldier,” Ahmad says, “I do not wield blades.”

The minister looks up from the papers in front of him. The numbers and words written there could be ground for execution, yet Ahmad is not afraid. “No. You do not wield any blades.”

Ahmad rests his hands on the table in front of him. The surface is gritty with salt. Earlier, he had been examining his product. He moves to control all trade in the empire. The power which comes with coin makes him numb to fear of reprisal.

“These are not small charges,” Ahmad says, more to himself than the minister. He is accused of using force to obtain his ends. Rumor in courts paint him unfavorably.

Perhaps he forgot his way, he thinks as he plays with a pinch of salt.

He is uncertain. He does know that for many years his childhood. He only recalled his years in the court of the Khan of Khans. It had been a benign comments.

“My little bird,” a lord had said, holding his young son above his head, pretending as if the child was flying.

Then all at once, he remembers his sisters dead in the corner. He hears his mother and his father and his brother being murdered. He hears the whistle he had long forgotten, the one that had protected him but allowed his guilt to survive.

“The empress is not pleased,” the minister says, “This is an affront to Prince Jinghim. It makes him look foolish, as if he was too simple to recognize your treason.”

He does not offer rebuttal or excuse. His mind is in another land, one where the honor of the Khan and the weight of coin mean nothing.

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VIII

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The cloth is rough, scratching his face. It suffocate him. His mind grows weary as his breath grows difficult. This was a final grace from the executioner. He begins to drift into sleep as he hears the thundering of the horses. The first wave crushes his torso. The second snaps his neck. He hears the hum of a whistle. The third wave comes and there is nothing but darkness.


End file.
